


A Is for Alpha (But There’s No “Me” Without “Team”)

by Brosedshield



Category: The A-Team (TV)
Genre: Alpha Males, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Gen, Military, Pack Building, Pack Dynamics, Pack Family, Pack Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 22:35:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6827965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brosedshield/pseuds/Brosedshield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal may have been born a natural Alpha, but who would actually form a pack with him? They'd all have to be crazy as he is.</p><p>(Hannibal Smith has a lot of things: a brilliant tactical mind, convincing acting ability, plenty of guts. But and Alpha without a pack is nothing but a crazy lone dog, and Hannibal is nothing without the A-Team.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Is for Alpha (But There’s No “Me” Without “Team”)

**Author's Note:**

> I adore the pack dynamics of the A-Team. This is the #1 reason I watch the show. SO FAR, this is just Hannibal and B. A., we shall see if this continues but this snippet I wanted to get out. Hope you enjoy, let me know if it works!

There’s more to being an Alpha than having an inherent confidence and a dominant presence. More even than being the toughest, baddest mother on the block. A wolf that can take down all comers without breaking a sweat isn’t an Alpha. Without a pack, that sort of wolf is a threat, the sort that civilized, well-run communities put down like a common dog.

~*~

They worried about John Smith all the way up through high school. A little bit crazy, and a helluva bit sharp, he was too smart and too tough to get along with his peers, and he didn’t handle authority well. Most folks figured the best he could hope for was lone wolf status. It was a bad bet, really, but he wouldn’t bare his throat to anyone, and who would follow the sort of crazy fucker who watched too many monster movies, lied cheerfully and often, and would jump off a roof with a smile just to see the look on the other guy’s face while he did it. 

(He broke his ankle that time, but no one noticed because he didn’t bother to go to the hospital. When folks found out, that didn’t exactly change their opinion of his mental health.)

The military wasn’t much better. Brilliant tactical mind or no, “Hannibal” Smith didn’t get his nickname just because he could outsmart the other guy. It takes a certain kind of crazy to take elephants over the Alps and crazy was something Hannibal had in spades.

He got sent on a lot of small team missions in Korea, and then later in Vietnam, especially as he rose through the ranks: Hannibal and two or three guys to do a job no one else wanted. Usually they were all highly competent rejects that no one would miss if the job went wrong.

That’s where Hannibal met B. A. Baracus. They were strapping explosives to bridges in ‘Nam, and no one was having a good time.

“The bridge is too sturdy there,” Baracus said to their commanding-officer-of-the-week. “Ain’t going to do no good, blowin’ it there.” 

The ‘sir’ was noticeably absent.

Behind the two of them, his thick soggy cigar unlit so the enemy couldn’t pick up the scent, Hannibal Smith grinned. He liked this kid, with his anger, his saunter, and the just-barely regulation haircut. And what he’d read about B. A. Baracus in the personnel reports that he absolutely shouldn’t have been able to get his hands on (genius engineer, constant fighter, multiple objections to actions against civilians) made Hannibal like him even more.

The officer caught his look and glared. “What the hell you smiling about, Smith?” he snapped. “You want to set all those charges yourself?”

“Let me handle this,” Hannibal said, and pushed passed him.

Baracus stared down at him. “What you looking at, fool?” he demanded.

_ Bad Attitude indeed, _ Hannibal thought.

“Nothing,” he said. “Where would you set the charges, Private?”

B.A. Baracus glared. “What?”

“You heard me, where would you set the charges to blow the bridge.” Hannibal took the cigar from his mouth, the better to show his teeth. “That blowhard over there can’t see past the nose on his face, but the question is, do you have a better idea?”

Baracus kept up the glare for a long minute, and then nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “You got to blow one of the secondary poles on their side. It’s all connected. But ain’t no way we can get over there.” He shot a sharp look at their officer, and Hannibal caught a flash of something bright and gold under the collar of his shirt. 

“We’ll get over there,” Hannibal said. “Leave the planning to me. You just get the charges ready. And maybe hotwire us a getaway car.

B. A. glared, but he did as Hannibal asked. When they burned rubber away from that spot eight hours later in a jury-rigged off-roader, B. A. Baracus had bruised knuckles, their officer had a black eye, and the Viet Cong had one less functional bridge. Hannibal Smith was in the back seat, soaking wet and covered in feathers, grinning from ear to ear with a lit cigar clenched between his teeth.

For the first time in his life, he had the possibility of pack.

~*~  
Hannibal Smith can claim a lot of things: a brilliant tactical mind, convincing acting ability, plenty of guts. But an Alpha without a pack is nothing but a crazy lone dog, and Hannibal is nothing without the A-Team.


End file.
